


And He Is On the Run

by LydiaN



Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Angst, Band breakup, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Homelessness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaN/pseuds/LydiaN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wedding bells for Davy, an engineering scholarship for Micky, and a dream songwriting job for Mike break up the Monkees. Peter is simply broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conversations That Never Are Complete

**Author's Note:**

> The title and chapter headings are paraphrased from the Nesmith song "St. Matthew." The Epilogue includes a quotation from "Propinquity."
> 
> Part I and II are gen, part III and the Epilogue are Mike/Peter.

Mike could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Davy had called a house meeting. He exchanged a curious glance with an equally curious Micky. As Davy took his place at the head of the table and took up the gavel, Mike could see that his fingers were shaking ever so slightly.

"What's up, babe?" Mike asked as he slid into the seat on Davy's right.

Davy squirmed a bit in his seat. "Let's get settled down first, okay?"

Micky, eyebrows now fully raised, sat on Davy's left and Peter took the chair beside him. Once all three pairs of eyes were trained on him, Davy cleared his throat.

"We're meeting tonight because of Imogene."

Imogene was Davy's latest girlfriend, a petite blonde who was British into the bargain. The general consensus amongst the group was that she was quite groovy. Respectfully absenting herself from rehearsals and only coming to gigs when she was invited was definitely part of that conclusion, but the clincher was that she didn't expect Peter to give up the bedroom for her trysts with Davy. 

Thinking about those trysts at Imogene's studio apartment in town made the hairs on Mike's arms stand up in alarm. Had there been consequences?

Davy sighed and scrubbed his hand over his eyes. "She's, uh...pregnant."

Consequences, indeed.

Silence.

"Oh." Micky was the first to recover the use of his voice. "Congratulations?"

Mike patted Davy's arm. "That's cool, man, really. Congratulations." He winced at how hollow he sounded. 

Only Peter appeared to be genuinely happy. He was probably happier than Davy himself, Mike thought as Peter shouted, "I'm going to be an uncle! This is great, Davy!"

Ah, Peter, able to see silver linings when everyone else was shrouded in fog. Mike couldn't restrain a smile as he turned to Davy again. "So what happens next, Shotgun?"

"Don't say 'shotgun,'" Micky groaned. "I bet there's one pointed right at Davy's head. Right?"

Davy bit his lip and nodded. "We're getting married a week from Saturday."

Although Mike knew he should have seen that coming, the words still hit him like a ton of bricks. Micky was staring with shock plainly etched on his face, but Peter was practically glowing with excitement. "I love babies. I love weddings. This is going to be amazing, guys! This kid's going to have built-in entertainment for his birthdays, and it's gonna be us!" He bounced out of his chair and threw his arms around Davy. "I've gotta go. I've got baby things to buy!"

Mike opened his mouth to tell Peter to sit back down, but something in Davy's eyes stopped him cold. Instead, he pulled the car keys out of his pocket and slid them across the table. "Drive carefully, Pete."

"I will," he promised, eyes sparkling with joy. He hummed a lullaby as he left.

The moment the door closed, Davy hung his head and started to speak again. "I didn't want to tell this part in front of Peter. Not yet, anyway." He took a deep breath. "Imogene's parents aren't thrilled."

"I'd imagine not," Mike said drily. "So they have some demands on you, apart from making an honest woman out of their daughter?"

"Yes," Davy sighed. "They have, uh, money. And they're willing to help us with the baby and all...but they expect us to move to England. I'll have a job with the family business, make something of myself, you know?"

Mike's throat constricted painfully. He saw Micky blinking fast, fighting back tears, and his own eyes began to fill.

Davy must have seen their sadness because he forced a cheesy grin. "Hey, the band can go on without me. I just shake maracas and sing a bit."

"No way, man," Micky said. "We started this band together."

"And we'll end it together," Mike finished, although the words burned him to the soul. 

It was all over. 

After a few moments of mournful silence, Micky swept his hair out of his face and peered shyly at his friends. "I didn't bring it up before because, well, I didn't see how it could work out - but I showed Pop Warner my inventions and he sent some of my blueprints to Cal Tech. They offered me a full ride to study engineering."

"Micky, that's fantastic!" Davy finally broke into a genuine smile. "With proper adult supervision, you might not blow anything up!"

Micky bumped his shoulder against Davy's. They both turned to Mike. "What about you?" Micky asked. "I know it's sudden, but...do you have any idea what you'd like to do?"

He knew exactly what he was going to do. A letter had been burning a hole in Mike's pocket for days. "Well, there's this club in Houston. They have a house band, and I sent them some of my songs--"

"Careful with that," Davy joked.

Mike wrinkled his nose. "Very funny. Anyway, they wanted to buy them. And they offered me the chance to come out and play, maybe record a little bit."

"But you wouldn't," Micky said softly, "because of us."

"Because of all of us." Mike reached out and patted Micky's hand. Davy placed his hand on top and all three of them smiled at one another.

Despite the sudden burst of affection, something was gnawing at Mike's conscience. He pulled away and leaned back in his chair. "There's just one thing about laying the Monkees to rest," he said as firmly as his emotions would allow. "One thing we've forgotten."

"What?" Davy and Micky chorused.

He couldn't believe they had to ask. "Peter," Mike murmured. "He's only thinking about a baby and a wedding. Losing the band is gonna knock him backwards." 

"Oh, man," Micky groaned. "Music is...it's all he has."

"That's not quite true, Mick. He's got you. You're the only one of who'll still be here and Pete's gonna need you more than ever. He's never been on his own a day in his life. Sweet kid like that would get taken advantage of as sure as we're born."

Micky managed a smile but his eyes were sad. "I just wish the two of you weren't going so far away."

"I've got a week," Davy declared, "and I'll spend as much of it as I can with Peter."

"I won't be all that far away. He can come visit any time, or both of you when you've got a break from school. It's not fair to give you all the responsibility, Micky, even though you'd gladly take it on." Mike took a shaky breath. "The hard part is going to be talking to Peter."

He had no idea how prophetic those words were. When they sat down with Peter at dinner and broke the news, his reaction shocked them. Davy had feared tears, Micky was afraid Peter would simply deny that there was a problem, and Mike was worried that he'd bolt out the door and get himself into trouble.

None of these things happened. Peter simply nodded gravely, excused himself from the table, and went out on the balcony. He perched on the railing, facing the ocean with his eyes shut and the wind playing with his hair.

Micky wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up. "I'd better..."

Shaking his head, Davy said, "I think he wants to be alone."

"No." Mike's heart was heavy. "He's afraid to be alone so he's trying it on for size. C'mon, we should be with him while we still can."

The three of them tiptoed outside. Peter did not stir, did not acknowledge them in any way. "Pete?" Micky asked in a soft, tentative tone.

Peter's only reply was a slight shake of his head. Mike could see the trails of a tear on one cheek. "What is it, buddy? What can we do to help?"

The slim shoulders hunched as Peter struggled to control his breathing. A tear plopped down on the railing. "All I ever..." He sucked in a ragged breath that cut through Mike like a sword. Peter squeezed his eyes shut. "All I ever wanted was to play music with my friends. The only thing in the world. I had that for a little while, and now it's lost, and I just...just..."

"I'm so sorry." Davy's words were hushed. He walked over to Peter and tried to get him to look up. "Listen, Pete, I didn't get a chance to ask before, but...would you please be my Best Man? You are truly the best man I've ever known, and..."

"And I'm not going anywhere," Micky chimed in. "I'll be meeting a lot of groovy chicks at college. That means you'll be meeting them, too!"

Mike went next. "Once I get a little dough together I'll bring you down to Houston. You can hear the band, sit in - they'll go nuts for your banjo playing. I'll see you as often as I can, Peter, you know that."

"I'll write every week," Davy pledged. "Photos of the baby, hundreds of 'em. You'll be so sick of me that you'll forget that London's across the Atlantic!"

They were shocked when Peter shook his head. "Don't you see? I'd just be 'the dummy' in all those scenes. I'm going to lose all of you and I'm going to lose my home and it hurts, so please, please leave me alone."

After a few moments of leaden silence, Davy spoke gently. "I can't do a lot," he told Peter, "but you don't have to lose the Pad. Imogene's father sent us more than we need for moving expenses--I'm just taking my clothes, anyway--so I was about to suggest to Micky and you that I leave the rest of the cash so you two can stay in the Pad for at least another year."

Micky's smile could have lit up the night sky. "C'mon, Pete. I cook, you clean, what do you say?"

"Okay," Peter said without much enthusiasm. He slid off the railing and allowed Micky to catch him up in a clumsy but heartfelt squeeze. "Sorry to be a drag, guys. I'll be better in the morning."

But he wasn't.

The guys had seen Peter unhappy before, even occasionally depressed, but his mood for the next week was melancholy to the extreme. Mike got the feeling that every box he packed was a physical blow to Peter, who reacted the same way when Davy put the last of his wardrobe in his suitcase. Micky tried tempting him with food that went mostly uneaten. A leggy, suntanned blonde at Davy's rehearsal dinner flirted with him but he looked past her into the middle distance. Even Mike's request for "one last jam session" by way of a bachelor party went unheeded.

The quartet played for the last time together at the wedding reception. Davy sang lead on a song Mike had written just for the occasion. Peter played with consummate skill and utter lack of emotion, his face bearing the same stoic martyrdom it had when he had stood beside Davy at the ceremony. Peter was absent after the performance. In fact, he hid so well that even Micky could not find him. Only when the entire wedding was over and Davy and Imogene had gone off in their limo did Mike come across Peter sitting behind Micky's drum kit, holding on to Davy's discarded tambourine and crying as if his heart would break.

He was no good at this emotional stuff, Mike knew, but he also knew that Peter was suffering and it was partly because Mike would be leaving first thing in the morning. He crouched on the floor and wrapped Peter in his arms. "Aw, Pete, it's okay, really it is."

Peter buried his face in Mike's jacket. "He didn't even say goodbye," he muttered into Mike's shoulder.

"He did look for you. We all did. Where were you, anyway?"

"Women's bathroom."

Mike chuckled and held him closer. "You're a nut, man. Total nut. I'm gonna miss the hell out of you."

"Me, too." Peter sniffled and sat up, shaking his hair out of his wet eyes. "Let's pack up the gear and hide it so Micky thinks it's been stolen."

"Better idea." Micky appeared out of thin air, offering his hand to Peter and helping him stand. He slung an arm around Peter's shoulders and used the other to pull Mike into a loose embrace. "Let's steal the rest of the groom's cake and take it back with us." That earned a laugh hearty enough to keep Peter from breaking down on the drive home.

Exhausted and overly emotional, the three of them immediately changed into pajamas. Mike went upstairs to check on Peter and found him staring forlornly at Davy's empty bed. Before Mike had a chance to enter the room, Peter lowered his head and closed the door.

It was going to be a long night. 

Mike lay in his bed for the last time, listening to Micky rattle on about college and girls and how happy Davy had looked. At some point, Mike must have tuned out because the next thing he knew Micky was sitting on the edge of his bed. "Micky? What is it?"

"Nothing. Just...I'm gonna miss you, man. You've always been such a rock, like the coolest older brother in the world. Not that I don't love Davy, because I do, he's the greatest, you know? But I'm feeling a little lost knowing that you won't be here to tell me to do the dishes or pay the bills."

Mike snickered. "I could call you on the first of every month. But you don't need that. You don't 'need' anyone to tell you how to live. You're a good guy, a little crazy but still a good guy with a good head under all that kooky hair. I know you'll do right."

Micky nodded, smiling the rueful smile Mike had seen so much of this past week. "Thanks, Mike," he whispered. 

Neither man got a lot of sleep, and from the occasional footfall upstairs Mike knew that Peter was also awake. When morning came, the cheerful sunlight could not have been more inappropriate for Mike's mood. He went halfheartedly through his usual routine of a shower, a cup of coffee, and a walk along the beach. He came back to the Pad and saw Micky spooning half the sugar bowl into his coffee and Peter pushing cereal around in his bowl without eating anything.

Clearing his throat, Mike walked up to the table. "It's time, guys," he said as gently as he could.

"You can't stay another night? Please?" Peter pleaded. His eyes were so dark with sorrow that Mike almost relented, but he shook his head.

"I've gotta be in Houston by Tuesday. This truck I've rented won't hardly go fast enough as it is. I'm sorry, guys, but I've really got to go."

Micky stood up. "C'mon, Peter. Let's help him get his stuff on the truck, okay?" Peter followed in mute obedience, and the three of them began to place Mike's meager possessions into the truck bed. Finally, nothing was left but the electric and acoustic guitars Mike treasured. Mike picked up the case for the electric and put it in the passenger seat of the cab.

Turning around to face Micky and Peter was even harder than congratulating Davy on his marriage and impending fatherhood. He forced himself to stride over to Micky, who folded him in a tight hug.

"Take care of our boy," Mike whispered, "but most of all, you take care of yourself and do great things, you hear?"

Micky straightened his back and gave Mike his biggest grin. "You do great things, too, Michael."

Mike disentangled himself from Micky's long-limbed embrace and went back to the truck. He picked up the battered case that held his beloved acoustic guitar and took it over to Peter. He placed the case in Peter's hand, wrapping his long fingers around the handle. Peter looked up at him, shocked. "But Mike, this is your favorite. Why...why are--"

"So I'm always right here if you need me."

Peter set his lips tightly. Guitar case and all, Peter threw his arms around Mike and stood close, his head on Mike's chest. It was a struggle for Mike to rein in his emotions, especially when Micky came up and stroked Peter's hair. The three of them stood like that for several minutes while Mike regained his composure. He rubbed his cheek against the top of Peter's head and patted Micky on the arm.

"I gotta go." He sounded hoarse and desperate.

Micky backed away, still forcing a smile. Peter fumbled with the latches on the guitar case and pulled out the much-loved instrument. For one horrible moment, Mike feared Peter would smash it to pieces, but of course nothing could have been further from Peter's intentions. Instead, he began to play.

Mike found it fitting that his guitar had never sounded better than it did under Peter's skilled fingers. He got in the truck, rolled the windows down, and started the engine. He could still hear Peter's song and Micky's goodbyes as he put the truck in gear. 

The last thing Mike saw in his rear-view mirror was Peter, the California dawn burnishing his dark-gold hair as he sat cross-legged with the guitar on his lap, playing his heart out.


	2. Trying Not to Kneel

With success came a dressing room of his very own.

It wasn't huge by any means, but it was comfortable and gave him a nice place to hang out when he couldn't be bothered going home. Apart from the mini-fridge and hot plate, it also held a brown leather armchair that Tess, the house band's lead singer, had decided was too ratty for her. Mike loved it. Its soft surface enveloped him like a much-needed hug as he sank into it at the end of a long night's work.

With half-lidded eyes Mike surveyed the detritus on his dressing table: hairbrushes, combs, brilliantine, witch hazel to help clean the sweat off his face after a show, cherry cough drops. A jar of guitar picks served as a paperweight for a thick sheaf of correspondence, none of which was related to business. 

All of the letters and post cards were from the friends he hadn't seen for nearly a year. Some were on onion-skin international mail paper from Davy, detailing the adventures of life as a businessman in London and the capers of his little boy.

Peter Michael Jones, he'd been called. When Micky had complained about the "second billing" of the name he and Mike shared, Davy had explained that was exactly why they did it, so they wouldn't have to pick between the two nicknames. Mike felt a little pang when he saw the photo tucked into one corner of his mirror, the one showing Davy and Imogene and a little blond baby Mike might never get to hold.

Peter's letters tended to be short, usually scribbled on the back of a sheet of paper on which he'd laid out some chord progressions or song lyrics. He'd never taken another job with a band, despite the numerous offers that came his way once the news of the Monkees' breakup hit the club scene. Preferring to back other singers--he suffered paralyzing stage fright about singing and his own voice consistently let him down at crucial moments--Peter seemed content to play whatever instrument was needed for whoever was blowing through town, for however long they stayed. 

It made poetic sense, Mike thought as he cast his gaze on a photo of Peter at the keyboard of a magnificent Steinway, head bent in concentration as his long fingers worked their magic. Peter had always been the willow in their garden, strong but flexible. 

Mike looked at another photo, one of Micky standing with his arms around the waist of a laughing redhead. That was Miranda, who Micky had met in class and was now living at the Pad in the bedroom Micky and Mike used to share. "I've got a new roommate and she's way cuter than you," was how Micky had first broken the news. He went on to say that Peter seemed relieved to have help with the rent now that Davy's money was running low, and that the three of them were getting along well.

Mike saluted the photographs and snuggled down in his chair. Even by his own high standards, he was doing well indeed. The audiences that came to hear the house band, "The Texas Cavaliers," also appreciated Mike's sensitive voice and homespun humor. Far from being resentful of Mike's success, Tess and the rest of the band paid top dollar for the rights to record his songs and had even scored him some studio time to make some recordings of his own.

"There's room in this world for all kinds of sounds," Tess was fond of telling him. She was an exquisite woman with mahogany skin and enormous almond-shaped eyes that seemed to understand everything all the way down to the molecular level. "The songs you write just for yourself might as well be from the other end of the earth, but by God I love to hear you sing them."

It was true that Mike's personal songs were becoming ideosyncratic, with titles that didn't appear in the lyrics and chord progressions that seemed to dangle the words' meaning just out of reach. He didn't set out to do this, and had no agenda other than wanting to make something beautiful, something he could put on a vinyl disc and send to his friends to prove...to prove...

He had no idea what, exactly, he felt the need to prove. 

Before Mike had time for further reflection, the door to his dressing room flew open and Cal--Tess' husband and owner of the club--burst in. "Hey, man, I'm sorry to barge in on you, but this drunk guy tried to get in and said he had to see you, that he's got something of yours. Bill and I tossed him into the parking lot but he won't go away. Want me to call the police?"

Mike raised an eyebrow. "It's not like you to back away from a drunk, Cal. Why bring in the cops?"

Cal shrugged. "He's pretty wasted. Not much meat on him, either. He'd probably be happier sleeping it off in a cell."

"Well, there's no harm in seeing who it is." Mike swung his long legs over the edge of the chair and stood up, reaching high to stretch out his spine. Something prickled the back of his neck, making him as wary as he was weary.

He followed Cal out into the parking lot. Sure enough, there was a man sitting on the ground, leaning against one of the few parked cars still on the asphalt. His unkempt hair and straggly beard glistened with oil under a streetlight that cast his gaunt face into stark relief. For a fleeting second, Mike was reminded of his younger, hand-to-mouth existence. He sat on his heels next to the drifter's long, skinny legs, which were clad in tattered jeans. "Hey. I heard you want to see me," he said gently.

He was expecting a hard-luck story at best, or a lunatic's rantings at worst, but he was not prepared for the agony in the man's voice. "Michael." The name came out in a rasp around a parched tongue. "Don't you know me?"

Mike's heart broke so hard he was sure he heard it actually crack.

"Peter," he breathed. He registered Cal's astonished, open mouth as Mike dropped to his knees and pulled the ragged man into his arms. "Oh, my God, Peter, what happened to you?"

"You KNOW this guy?" Cal's voice was laced with disbelief.

Mike shrugged the question off. "Help me get him into my dressing room."

"Is that really a good--"

"DO IT!" Mike shouted. Cal, a good three inches taller than Mike and at least twice as strong, lifted Peter in his arms like a rag doll and whisked him into Mike's dressing room.

"Where's your stuff, Pete?" Mike asked, but Peter shook his head and burst into a fit of coughing. "Cal, go and tell Tess it's all okay but I need her help, wouldya? He's not wasted, he's delirious and starving. I'm gonna clean him up, get something into him. And look around outside, see if you can find anything he was carrying."

Looking dubious, Cal nodded his assent and stalked away. Mike grabbed a handful of tissues and the bottle of witch hazel and began to dab at the grime that all but obscured Peter's face. "Seriously, what the hell is going on?"

"I'm sorry, Mike," Peter managed to say. "I just wanted to see you."

Mike pulled away and ran his hand through his hair. He was jumpy and unsure sure what to do next. "I'm gonna run the shower and we'll wash you up, okay?"

Peter, looking too weak to argue, simply nodded. Mike scrambled around in the tiny bathroom and turned the shower to its hottest setting. A thousand questions rattled around in his brain, clogging his thought processes. Outside, he heard Tess' voice addressing Peter.

"You're in a state, all right." Mike emerged from the bathroom in time to see Tess pluck at the skin on the back of Peter's hand. It stayed in the pinched position for several seconds before receding again. "Mike, he's pretty badly dehydrated. We need to get something into him. You got any juice?"

Mike rummaged around in the fridge and brought out a small carton of orange juice. Tess took it from him with a compassionate glance. She held it gingerly against Peter's cracked lips. "Not too fast," she admonished when Peter began to gulp greedily. "Just a little bit at a time, hon. You want it to stay where it'll do you some good." Obediently, Peter took small sips until he was too tired to drink any more and let his head loll backwards on the headrest.

"How long's it been since you ate something?" Mike asked.

Peter blinked slowly. His eyes were ringed with shadows. "Dunno. Couple of days."

His gut clenched. He turned to say something to Tess, who waved her hand at him. "Tomato soup, that'll perk him up. I'll be back by the time you've got him in the shower." She sniffed the air with distaste. "We should probably toss his clothes. You got any extras? Cal's would dwarf him."

"Yeah, good idea, I've got more stuff here."

"You got it. Call Cal if you can't move him on your own. He's hanging around to make sure you're okay, but I've told him that this guy can't lift his own guitar much less take a swing at ya."

"His...guitar?"

"Yeah, that's all Cal found outside, just an old beat-up guitar case. I'll bring it in once Peter here is decent."

"Thanks, Tess." Mike hoped that his deep gratitude somehow came out in those two simple words. He yanked Peter's filthy t-shirt over his head and undid his belt. "Lift up, I've gotta get these pants off you before the stink turns permanent." 

With an effort, Peter arched his back enough for Mike to slide the disgusting garment off him. Peter's sandals slipped off on their own. He covered himself with his hands, his eyes lowered and a flush of embarrassment growing above the awful beard.

"It's cool, Pete. You don't have anything I don't, right?" He tugged Peter upright and half-carried him into the steaming shower. Peter sank gratefully to the floor and let the hot water sluice the grime from his skin. Mike rolled up his sleeves and shampooed Peter's hair until it squeaked between his fingers while Peter used a washcloth and soap to scrub himself clean.

Mike shut the water down to a thin trickle and helped Peter sit on a towel spread over the toilet lid, another towel in his lap. "You're gonna tell me how all this happened, but not right now. Right now I'm shaving this crap off your face and getting you fed."

"I can do it," Peter protested weakly as Mike grabbed a razor and began running it through the scruff on his chin.

Mike snorted, rinsed the blades, and took another swipe at Peter's face. "Like hell you can. I'm not handing you anything sharp until you've had a meal and about sixteen hours' sleep." He tipped Peter's head back and shaved away the worst of the scruff, then cleaned away the trimmings with a wad of toilet paper.

Peter smiled enough to show his dimple. It was like a gift.

"Stay right where you are," Mike directed, although he and Peter both knew that Peter couldn't walk off even if he wanted to. Mike pulled a sweatshirt, jeans, and briefs out of the chest of drawers and helped Peter dry off and get dressed. Peter's steps were a little steadier this time, but he still leaned on Mike's arm to get back into the dressing room chair.

Tess entered breezily, cutting off anything Mike might have been planning to say. "Sorry, couldn't knock with my hands full." She carried a huge mug in one hand and a weatherbeaten guitar case in the other. "First things first, my new friend. Hold it in both hands, that's right, and remember to take just a little drink at a time."

With shaking hands, Mike took the guitar case from Tess and placed it on the dressing table. He opened it and saw, with dismay, that the neck of the guitar had broken at the base and hung loosely by the only four strings that remained on the instrument.

"I'm sorry," Peter began, but Tess hushed him and coaxed him to take another drink of the soup. 

"Later, later."

Mike looked at Peter, tears stinging his eyes. "I'm gonna call Micky," he managed between clenched teeth.

"It's not his fault," Peter began, but Mike waved him to silence. He stalked out to the pay phone and put in every quarter and dime in his pockets. Talking to Peter could wait; talking to Micky could not, and damn the cost.

Mike told the operator the area code, then the familiar number, and waited to hear Micky's voice on the other end. When he did, he immediately lit into him. 

"How long ago did Peter leave?" he asked without preamble.

Silence hung between them for a moment, then Micky spoke. "About three weeks ago. Miranda and I had a fight about Peter being around all the time, and I guess he overheard."

"And you didn't tell me."

"There wasn't anything to tell. He left a note, said he was going to visit friends."

"And you didn't think that was weird?"

"Hey, man, he took his bass, banjo, and your old guitar with him. I figured he was just going to play a few gigs, wait for Miranda to cool off. When did you hear from him?"

"Tonight. He turned up at the club. Mick, he probably hitch-hiked the whole way. He hasn't eaten for days, he has NOTHING with him but my poor old guitar, and he was so dirty that the bartender thought he was a bum."

"Oh my God," Micky murmured. "Is he okay now?"

"I'm taking him to my place. I think he needs food and sleep more than anything else."

Micky cleared his throat but his voice was still high and tentative. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea, honestly, I thought he just went to clear his head. Please tell him...tell him..."

Micky sounded so remorseful that Mike couldn't stay angry. "Yeah, man, I got it."

"Call me tomorrow, okay? Let me know how he's doing."

"I'll do that. Goodnight, Mick."

He hung up the phone, feeling as if a boulder had been taken off his back. Peter had left of his own volition after all--he just hadn't known what to do once he was on the road.

To Mike's surprise, Peter appeared behind him, supported by Cal on one side and Tess on the other. "I'm okay now," he said, sounding almost like himself. "Thanks for the food and the clothes, Mike."

"Are you...are you planning to leave?" Mike asked.

Peter looked at him with anguished eyes, the way he had when he'd asked Mike to stay with him for just one more day. "I...can go, if you want," he began.

"Don't!" Mike was surprised at the vehemence in his own voice, and he grimaced when Peter flinched. He was even more surprised when he clapped his hand on Peter's thin shoulder and whispered, "Don't go."

Peter relaxed visibly. "Okay, then," he whispered back.

From somewhere in the recesses of his brain, Mike registered that Cal and Tess had backed away and he was holding Peter gently by the upper arms. It was relatively easy to propel Peter back to the parking lot and help him into the passenger seat of Mike's car. "I don't live far," Mike said as the warm night air filtered through the open windows. Every time they stopped at a red light, Mike had to look over to make sure Peter was still there. He was indeed still there, leaning heavily against the window frame with his eyes fluttering closed now and again. Once in a while he would cough harshly but otherwise he remained silent.

Mike pulled into the gravel driveway outside his home on the outskirts of town. He tended to keep the house tidy, which he was grateful for as he guided his houseguest to the bedroom. Peter, already barefoot because Mike's shoes had been, surprisingly, too small for his swollen feet, sank into the mattress with a grateful sigh. "Nice guest room," he said as he looked around at the music and books that lined the walls.

"It's my room, actually," Mike replied, immediately wishing he hadn't because Peter pulled himself up on his elbows and protested. "Nope, not listening to you, Pete. You need a good long sleep in a real bed, and I'm gonna put my guitar back together while you do it."

"What if you get tired?" Peter asked, lying back again and letting Mike pull a soft, faded quilt over him.

Mike looked fondly at the exhausted, innocent face and could not resist the urge to stroke Peter's shiny hair. "I won't," he promised. "I've got you here, Shotgun, and you aren't goin' anywhere. Micky can live without you for a bit."

Peter's happy expression melted away and his eyes widened. "Micky--"

"I've talked to him and he knows you're with me. It's okay. You didn't really give him all the information he'd have needed to put the puzzle together. I'm just grateful that you made it to me in one piece." At the sudden shadow over Peter's thin face, Mike added, "You ARE in one piece, right?"

Peter turned on his side, facing away from Mike. "Tired," he murmured. "I'll talk tomorrow..."

Scowling at the evasion but not wanting to hurt Peter any more than had already been done, Mike held his breath for a few seconds before getting up to find his woodworking equipment. The guitar was beaten up but not destroyed, so Mike began by popping off the fingerboard and drilling a hole for a dowel to run through the broken neck into the body of the instrument. He tried to clear his mind of everything, to focus on restoring his--Peter's, now--guitar, but his thoughts kept returning to Peter's ordeal. 

Once the neck was glued and clamped, Mike padded quietly into his bedroom and pulled the desk chair close to the bed. Peter lay sprawled on top the covers, wearing only Mike's underwear. His long limbs took up most of the bed's surface. Mike turned on the bedside reading lamp and sat gingerly on the mattress. He hadn't examined Peter during his shower; the guy was embarrassed enough as it was. But now Mike's appraising gaze took in the angry, raw skin on Peter's elbows and knees, the ring of bruises on his forearms, and the sickly pallor of flesh that had been accustomed to sunlight. 

"Something awful happened to you, buddy," Mike whispered, "and I'm gonna find out what."

Peter turned toward the familiar voice and opened his eyes. "Hi," he croaked, then began to cough again. Mike got a glass of water from the bathroom and gave it to him, watching as Peter gratefully downed the entire contents. 

"I didn't mean to wake you," Mike apologized.

"It's okay. Not a great dream, anyway." Peter yawned and buried his face in the pillow. "You really gonna stay up all night?" he asked drowsily.

Something in the tone of Peter's voice made Mike's chest go tight. "I'm done with the guitar. Thought I might catch a few winks on the sofa--"

Peter's hand, surprisingly strong, grasped his wrist and tugged him down. "There's room. I'll scoot over, look."

Mike turned over to face Peter, taking in the silent plea in his huge eyes. Peter didn't want to be alone. He'd come all this way, and he was afraid. "I promise to be a gentleman," Mike said, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

Peter froze for a second, then blinked rapidly and turned away.

"Pete?"

"It's okay, Mike, really--"

"Bullshit!" More angry with himself than anything, Mike took hold of Peter's lightly-freckled shoulders and turned him back over again. He swept the long bangs out of Peter's eyes. "I know you're worn half to death, and I don't want to make this worse. But you've gotta tell me the truth, man. Are you sure you're all right?"

Peter nodded.

Unconvinced, Mike continued as gently as he could. "Did someone...did someone hurt you, Pete?"

This time Peter shrugged and his body went rigid.

"Peter!" Mike cried, his heart beating so fast he thought it might explode.

"This guy...tried. But I wouldn't let him. I hit him. That's how I broke your guitar, Mike, and I'm so sorry, but I slammed the case into him and ran away as fast as I could."

Never in his twenty-three years had Mike wanted to kill anyone, but at that moment he could gladly have skinned Peter's assailant alive and boiled his liver just for the pure pleasure of it. He swallowed the bile that rose unpleasantly in his throat and concentrated on settling Peter down once more.

"You did the right thing. Remember, I said the guitar was filling in for me, and I've have slammed into the guy myself if I'd been there." He pulled Peter close and tucked Peter's head under his chin. "This okay?" he asked.

"It's good. Safe." Peter's tenseness began to ebb and soon he was sleeping peacefully in the circle of Mike's arms.

Mike closed his eyes and succumbed to uneasy dreams. 


	3. Partly Shattered Men

The shrill, unwelcome ringing of his phone woke Mike from his fourth or fifth nightmare of the night. He rubbed his eyes, then checked on Peter, who was curled up and still sound asleep.

Mike ran to the phone, more to shut it up than to find out who was calling. "Hello?"

An operator with a pronounced British accent announced that a Mister David Jones was on the line for a Mister Michael Nesmith. "That's me, thanks," Mike said quickly. "Davy, what are you--"

"Is Peter all right?" Davy cut in, sounding frantic. "Micky called me about an hour ago--I think he was stoned, by the way--and rambled about how Peter ran away and became a hobo!"

Mike barked out a laugh. "It's dramatic but not that dramatic. Peter overheard Micky's girlfriend saying she didn't want Peter to live there."

"She sounds a right bint to me," Davy groused.

"Aww, she's not that bad. Anyway, Peter got upset and he bolted. He was pretty hungry and dirty by the time he got to me so I took care of that right off. He's picked up some kind of cold or cough, and it looks as if he might have pawned his instruments somewhere along the line, but basically he's gonna be just fine. Don't worry about him, Davy."

Davy sounded wistful as he asked, "Could I speak to him?"

"He's out cold, babe, or I'd put him on." Mike heard a high-pitched squeal over the telephone line. "Speaking of babe, how's Young Master Peter doing?"

"He's great, thanks. Imogene's a fabulous mum. I'm a bit rubbish as a dad, but I'm learning every day."

"I bet." Mike sighed, well aware of the cost of a transatlantic phone call. "I know I shouldn't keep you, Davy, so I'll get going. I'll let Peter know you called, and when Mick sobers up I'll give him a little ass-kicking on your behalf, just like old times."

"Like old times. It was good to hear your voice, Michael. Good-bye."

"You too, partner." Mike put the receiver back in its cradle and stood with his hands on his hips for a few minutes. He hadn't heard Davy's voice since the wedding, and he missed it terribly. If only the Texas Cavaliers could do a British tour...

"If wishes were horses," Mike muttered to himself. Instead of focusing on the past, he decided to take care of the present by making an enormous breakfast. He was an unimaginative but efficient cook, and before long there was a huge platter of scrambled eggs on the table, coffee for himself and a tall glass of milk for Peter, and about half a loaf's worth of buttered toast.

Peter wandered into the kitchen with a quilt wrapped around his bare shoulders. His eyes were far less bleary and his gait was steady. "Something smells amazing," he declared, taking in a deep breath. Another coughing fit seized him, but this one was shorter and didn't leave him gasping.

"We oughta see to that cough," Mike said as he motioned Peter to his seat.

"It's gotten way better. I was coughing up blood a couple of days ago." Peter frowned as Mike stopped dead in his tracks. "Whoops, didn't mean to bring that up."

"If it weren't for the food getting cold, I'd drag the rest of that story out of you. But for now, eat up. I don't have to be at the club until seven, so I'm gonna drag you down to Galveston, put you on the beach, and let you get a little sunshine on that pasty-white face of yours."

"Sounds good." Peter took a tentative bite of the eggs. "Oh, God, that's good. How much of this is for me?"

"All of it. And if you're still hungry afterwards, I can go next door and get more eggs from Susan."

Peter bit his lip, but a lopsided grin still bloomed across his features. "Girlfriend?"

"Sixty-seven years old, retired lawyer? Not hardly. But she's got more chickens than she knows what to do with and she loves giving away the eggs."

Within minutes, Peter had scraped the last of the eggs onto his plate and was eating with a ferocity Mike had never seen in him. "Careful, you heard what Tess said last night about needing to keep everything down."

"I'm fine." Peter finally looked away from his meal and surveyed his surroundings. "How's the guitar?"

"It's gonna be good as...well, good as old, anyway. It'll probably heal before you do." They both looked at the fading green and purple marks on Peter's arm. "Only when you're ready to tell me," Mike replied to Peter's unanswered question.

The gratitude in Peter's face said more than words ever could. "I'll help with the dishes," he offered, but Mike shook his head. 

"Tomorrow. Right now, go find something to put on and we'll get out of town before traffic hits." Mike made quick work of the few pans and plates, then slipped into an old pair of black shorts, a blue t-shirt that had seen better days, and a well-scuffed pair of sneakers. Gulf Coast humidity wrecked his hair no matter how hard he tried, so he put a baseball cap over the unruly mop and decided he was good enough for all practical purposes. He heard Peter shouting from the bedroom.

"Michael, your feet are too small! I'm gonna have to use your sandals, okay?"

It sounded so much like the old days, when the group had sometimes pulled their shirts from a communal pile, that Mike broke out into peals of laughter. "You take whatever you need. I'm ready when you are."

Someone knocked loudly on the front door. Mike walked over and opened it to find Tess and Cal on the doorstep. "How's the patient?" Cal asked.

"Better." It was Peter, who had gotten dressed in some of Mike's casual gear. He extended his hand shyly to Cal. "Thank you for last night. For not just calling the cops and blowing me off."

Cal looked Peter up and down, nodding in approval. "There was just something about you, man. I'm glad I did the right thing."

Tess, who never stood on formality, handed Mike a paper bag that was far heavier than it looked so she could have both arms free to wrap Peter up in a hug. "You clean up good-looking," she teased. 

"You could use a haircut, though," Cal put in, smirking, as he rubbed his own bald pate.

"That hair's too pretty to cut!" declared Tess. She ruffled it and Peter instinctively stood on tiptoe to get the full effect of someone's hand against his scalp. "Anyway, what are you two boys doing with yourselves today?"

Mike, who had opened the bag and taken a deep sniff of its contents, closed his eyes and let out an exaggerated moan of delight. "I will be eating your tuna salad sandwiches until I explode." He showed the bounty to Peter, whose eyes widened at the sheer amount of food in the sack. "We're going down to the beach, get some fresh air and sunshine into this boy."

"And we could live there for a week with all this food!" Peter exclaimed. "That's really nice of you guys. Thank you so much."

"Any time, Peter," Tess said. She hauled him in for another hug and then gave one to Mike. "You bringing him to the show tonight?"

"Absolutely." Mike positively beamed as he thought about Peter's accomplishments. "You two should hear him play. He can blow the walls down with pretty much anything you put in his hands."

Cal whistled. "So you've told us, but it's nice to put a face to a name. Bring him early, then. What's your favorite, son?"

For a moment, Peter's eyes misted over. He blinked rapidly and said, "I love them all. But my favorite thing is to play banjo while Mike sings."

Tess and Cal exchanged glances. "We'll see what we can do for you. Around six-fifteen, then?" Cal shook hands with both men, then ushered Tess down the porch steps. "Drive safely!"

"We will," Mike called after them as they headed back to their car. He turned to look at Peter, dressed all in blue, Mike's shirt hanging loosely from his skinny frame. "Let's hit the road," he said, all but pushing Peter outside into the Texas sunlight.

The windows were down, letting in a cooling gulf breeze as they made their way over the bridges that led to Galveston Island. Peter reclined in his seat with his eyes closed. "The wind feels good," he told Mike. "It's like I can really breathe for the first time in days."

"Just you wait. I've got the perfect spot." Mike maneuvered the car to the seawall and went west, ending up at a rock jetty inhabited only by some seagulls. "Sorry it's not as nice as the beach back at the Pad, but we take what we've got."

Peter hummed appreciatively as he got out of the car, stretching his arms and legs. "No, this is great. I haven't seen water in two weeks, maybe more. I missed it." He grabbed the bag of sandwiches out of Mike's grasp and clutched it melodramatically to his chest. "All mine, ha ha ha!"

Mike, shaking his head in amusement, pointed to the edge of the rocks. "Let's sit there. When you blow up from overeating, I'll feed your carcass to the sharks."

Peter followed, still humming, and sat down on a rock low enough to let his feet dangle in the water. "This is the only way to live, Michael, I mean it."

More inclined to agree than not, Mike sat cross-legged on Peter's left side. He didn't say anything, didn't feel the need to break the silence that stretched peacefully between them. Peter unwrapped a sandwich, handed it to Mike, then took one for himself. He tore the crusts off of the bread and offered them to the seagulls, who crowded fearlessly around him as if they understood his gentle nature.

The sun felt warm but not oppressive, so Mike took off his shirt to let the sunshine ease his tension. Peter turned slightly away when he followed suit. He'd always been shy, but Mike suspected that now Peter simply wanted to hide his bruises for a little while longer. Tipping his head back so his face caught the sun while the honey-blond tints glistened in his hair, Peter had never looked more serene and free.

His speaking voice, however, was still tentative when he finally began to tell Mike about his travels. "It hurt, what Miranda said," he began. "I'd just gotten used to only having Micky around, and suddenly even he didn't want me. I know that's not what really happened, and of course he'd side with her, but still. It was just as bad as Davy and you leaving. So I decided to go away. I didn't have a clue where I was headed. I thought maybe Connecticut, but there was no way the money was going to hold out that long."

Mike knew better than to ask why Peter didn't just ask his parents for money. Their relationship had been thorny even before Peter became what they thought of as a "hippie," and had only deteriorated over the years. "What happened to the money, Pete?"

"Well, there was this old man and he said he needed to get to Virginia to see his son who'd been MIA in Vietnam..."

Of course Peter had given it away. Mike tried not to roll his eyes.

"I got as far as Las Vegas by bus, but I didn't have any more cash so I...I sold the bass, Mike." He shivered, and Mike knew it was at the memory of his loss. "The guy who bought it from me was pretty nice, and he set me up with a couple willing to drive me to Arizona. Then I hitched a couple of rides and got as far as El Paso, but from there I just didn't have any luck. I was stuck for almost a week. That's when I pawned the banjo, just so I could eat something and maybe have enough gas money to talk someone into letting me get closer to Houston."

"You could've called me, Peter. Collect, any hour of the day or night." Mike couldn't bear to look at Peter's sun-kissed profile. "I'd have come for you."

"I didn't want to be rescued," Peter said, so low that Mike almost couldn't hear him over the crashing of the surf. "I wanted to get myself to you, to prove I could do it."

Mike bit back the eight sarcastic comebacks that rose to his lips. "I'm glad you made it, Pete." But the story so far only brought Peter as far as El Paso. More than six hundred miles were still to be accounted for.

"I got into a couple of fights, mostly over my hair, and then because of the beard too."

Mike chuckled darkly. "You're not much of a fighter. Hell of a musician. Glass jaw."

"No kidding. I finally got a ride with a guy who was coming out this way. He seemed pretty cool at first, but then it got weird."

Mike clenched his fists.

"He pulled over in the middle of nowhere, somewhere outside of Huntsville, and said he wanted me to...do things...and when I wouldn't, he said he'd take the guitar instead. That's when I hit him and started running. I kept trying and trying, but hardly anyone would give me a lift looking as messed up as I did. Finally I just started walking." Peter sighed. "It rained a lot, and I couldn't find much to eat. I looked so bad that I only traveled at night. Honestly, if I hadn't gotten to you when I did, I don't know how much longer I could've held out. When Cal opened the door, even though he threw me right back out of it, I swear I thought he had wings and a halo."

"Cal and Tess are strange guardian angels but good ones. They held me together a lot, right at the beginning when I was so homesick I wanted to cry all the time."

Peter stared at Mike, then moved close enough that they were nearly touching. "You were homesick? You could've told me in your letters. I'd have tried to help you."

Mike could no more resist the urge to rest his head on Peter's shoulder than the tide could resist coming in. "What, and admit that I wasn't a Leader of Men? Nah. We're a couple of stubborn cusses, Peter, the pair of us. It's a miracle we survived this long." When Peter tried and failed to suppress a yawn, Mike stretched out, tipping Peter into his lap. "Put your head down for a while. If you start to burn I'll flip you over."

By the time Mike finished his sentence, Peter was already asleep. Mike looked out at the vast gray-blue expanse of the sea, his thoughts tumbling around in his head. He felt unstable, as if the world would slip out from under him. Nothing was real except for the solid weight of Peter's head in his lap and the cornsilk tickle of his hair against his thigh.

A sudden shift in the wind brought rain clouds over them, so Mike reluctantly shook Peter awake enough to put him back in the car and drive back home. Peter settled down for a nap on the sofa while Mike showered and changed. He was dressed in a black shirt, softly-worn jeans, and his old Cuban-heeled boots by the time Peter became fully conscious. "Why didn't you get me up sooner?" he queried, looking grouchy and sleep-rumpled.

"Because I don't want you to keel over tonight at the gig. Jump in the shower and change into something comfortable. I'm gonna finish up your guitar before we leave so it'll be ready tomorrow." When he saw Peter's face fall, he continued. "I'm not kicking you out, Peter, could you just relax and believe me for once? I've got a couple songs I'd like to run past you, and it was always better when you played so I could hear what I've been missing."

Just like that, Peter was happy again; give Peter music and all was right with the world. Music was Mike's religion, something to be honored and revered. But to Peter, music was simply joy.

When they arrived at the club, Mike couldn't honestly say he was surprised that Cal walked up to Peter and handed him an exquisitely worn five-string banjo. "C'mon, son, we've heard nothing but 'Peter can do this' and 'Peter can do that' since the day Mike showed up."

Mike's mouth turned down at the corners. Had he really behaved like that? 

"Yeah," Tess said, as if she could hear his thoughts. "Peter was pretty much all you talked about, when we could get you to talk at all." She nudged his arm. "You're pretty far gone on the boy--now I can see why."

"Tess!" Mike hissed through clenched teeth. 

She laughed, taking no more heed of him than if he had been an angry kitten. 

Far gone? Was she right? What would Peter think?

Peter didn't seem to have heard them. His focus had narrowed to examining the antique instrument with reverence. His fingers slipped a little while he tuned it, and he flushed with embarrassment. "Sorry. Haven't played for a while."

"That's fine, that's fine," Tess assured him. "Just take a seat. Mike's up first, anyway." She patted Mike's cheek and wiggled her eyebrows at him.

Mike was pretty sure that his jaw would snap in half if he didn't find a way to relax. He forced himself to take a deep, open-mouthed breath. "I'm on in a couple of minutes, so I'm heading backstage, okay?"

Peter, lost in the bliss of having an instrument in his hands, looked as if he would agree to a root canal. "Okay," he replied absently. "I'll be right here when you need me."

Yes. Yes, he would. 

Never had Mike felt so anxious at taking the stage as he was that night with Peter sitting ten feet away from him. He picked up his new guitar, his first purchase in Houston, and began to play. His voice soared as he reached the second verse, looked into Peter's tranquil, admiring eyes, and suddenly understood his own words.

"She stoops down to gather partly shattered men  
And knows that when it's over it will start again.  
Both the times she smiled it was a portrait of the sun.  
She calls herself Saint Matthew when she is on the run."

He felt the hush as the crowd waited for the last chord to die out before bursting into appreciative clapping. He could feel rather than see Peter's proud glance. Bowing slightly to acknowledge his audience, Mike leaned closer to the microphone. "With us here tonight is the finest musician and best friend a man could be blessed with in this life. Could you help me welcome Mr. Peter Tork?"

Cal brought out a second stool for Peter and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder before leaving the two performers onstage together. The lonely few months they had endured seemed like only a day as Mike gleefully started the opening bars of "You Told Me." 

When Peter's banjo burst into brilliant answering arpeggios, everyone took in a collective breath. It was stunning. The duo's perfect synchronization sent the audience wild, demanding so many encores that Tess offered to start her set half an hour late. When she did come on, the awestruck members of her band kept asking Peter to sit in on guitar and bass and piano, one song after another, until he was simply too fatigued to go on and instead sat quietly beside Mike while he played.

He had never played better in his life.

It was well past midnight when Cal shouted "Last call!" Mike felt vaguely guilty when he saw how enervated Peter was. Then again, the pure pleasure in Peter's eyes when each member of the band stopped by to clap him on the back, pleading with him to return and play with them again, reassured Mike that he'd done the right thing. Tess came up to Peter and whispered something to him that Mike couldn't hear, something that made him blush and smile at the same time.

Mike, nearly consumed by conflicting emotions he couldn't quite name, hurried over and grabbed Peter by the arm. "You're worn out. Let's go. We'll see y'all tomorrow, okay?"

He was sure he heard Tess' silvery laughter all the way out to the car. 

They half-stumbled back into Mike's house when it was nearly two in the morning. Mike decided that they should celebrate by splurging in a phone call to Micky. Their former roommate spouted a froth of relieved, garbled words that Mike was too tired to process. Even Micky needed to come up for air once in a while, so Mike jumped in as quickly as he could at the first sign of a breath. "Peter was amazing tonight. Probably the best I've ever heard him play. He had half of Houston eating out of his hand." He passed the phone to Peter.

"Micky! Yeah, I had so much fun. It's a great band, and Mike was incredible!"

Mike heard Micky's voice crackling over the receiver. "So when are you coming home, Pete? Miranda's awfully sorry and she's going nuts trying to think of what to do to make it up to you when you get back."

Peter opened his mouth but nothing came out. Mike snatched the receiver back from him. "Why don't we have him stay out here with me for a while? I'm thinking at least a month or two. Send some of his clothes, let him hang around and do some playing."

He wasn't sure who gasped louder, Peter or Micky. "Are you sure?" Peter whispered.

"Well...okay..." stammered Micky. 

"That's settled. Go to bed, man. Oh, and stay away from the frodis when you're talking to Davy because he gets really freaked out. We'll write you later in the week. G'night, Mick." He hung up the phone with a sense of a job well done.

Peter had walked away during this exchange and Mike turned to find him fiddling with the hem of his borrowed shirt, his eyes lowered and unreadable. "I was thinking that you probably want your bed back. I've had tons of sleep; I'm fine out here on the couch." Peter took a deep breath. "And, uh, I think I should go back to California after all."

"Peter," Mike drawled slowly, "that is the biggest lie you have ever told me." Peter hung his head but Mike slid his fingers under Peter's chin and tipped it upward so he could look straight into Peter's eyes. "You want to tell me why you just did that?"

Peter trembled under the strength of Mike's unwavering gaze. He lifted one hand in the air as if asking a question at school.

"What the hell...?"

"It's from your song," Peter whispered. "'Sometimes she must raise her hand to tell you what she said.'" He was blushing and his eyes were beginning to fill. "When we were playing together on stage, and earlier today at the beach, I...I felt too many things all at once. I couldn't stand it." Mike counted almost twenty agonizing seconds before Peter continued. "Then, just now when we were talking to Micky, the way you took control..."

"I should've asked you first," Mike began, but Peter cut him off.

"No, it's good. Can't you see? It makes me...I feel like...I want to do..." The first tears shimmered on Peter's eyelashes. His words spilled over, a torrent of emotion bursting from his lips. "I want to do what that man wanted me to do to him, only I want to do it to you. Do you understand me, Mike?" 

Mike, utterly overwhelmed, watched Peter place his fingers over his lips as if trying to force the words back in. For the first time in his life, Mike was struck absolutely dumb. Wouldn't Micky and Davy have loved to see that?

Peter's next words, uttered softly and with impossible longing, shattered the last of his doubts. "Michael, I love you."

"Peter," Mike replied slowly, trying to get his brain to stop sky-diving long enough for him to make up his mind what should happen next. It wasn't that hard, once he stopped trying to analyze everything and allowed himself to feel. Mike took a couple of steps forward, reached out, and swiped away the tears that had begun to streak down Peter's face. "I love you, too."

Peter stared boldly into Mike's eyes. "If you don't mean it, then don't say it just to make me feel better. It won't work..." 

Mike silenced him by putting two fingers over his mouth. For a moment, neither man moved. With a sly, predatory smile Mike replaced his fingers with his lips. 

He was kissing Peter. It was that simple, and that beautiful, and that erotic.

It did not take long for Peter's mouth to open slightly against Mike's, his hot, wine-scented breath wafting across Mike's upper lip. "Thank you," he exhaled.

"Oh, I'm not done. Not by a long shot." Mike pressed a kiss to Peter's forehead, then another on the tip of his chin. "You like it when I take control? There's plenty more where that came from."

Peter stood on tiptoe and tasted Mike's lower lip. "Then show me," he wheedled.

Of all the wonders Mike had seen in his life, nothing could ever compare to the beauty of Peter's face when he was aroused. His wide, innocent eyes turned sultry and he smiled so wickedly that Mike was tempted to do tequila shots out of his dimple.

"Oh, Peter. The things I could do to you..." Mike began but trailed off at a sudden look of confusion on Peter's face. Mike didn't ask the question aloud, instead taking Peter's face between his hands and stroking his thumbs across the flushed cheeks while he waited.

"I've never, well, not with...with a...you know...a guy."

Mike searched himself for an answer that would comfort them both. "Neither have I," he admitted. "But I know what I like to have done to me, and I'm supposing you'd like pretty much the same thing." He ran a finger down the bridge of Peter's lightly-freckled nose, then caressed his lips. "You know you can trust me, right?"

By way of an answer, Peter opened his mouth and drew in Mike's finger, running his tongue along the calloused tip. His eyes glinted with mischief at Mike's sudden intake of breath.

"Who are you, and what have you done with the bashful guy who was standing here a minute ago?" Mike chuckled.

"Still here," Peter mumbled around Mike's finger before letting it go with a kiss. "I'm complicated."

That was true, Mike realized as Peter astonished him by shedding his borrowed clothes. He had scarcely let them pool on the ground at his feet before he began undressing the thoroughly flummoxed Mike. He and Peter had always been relatively modest compared to the other two--Davy never suffered qualms about stripping down in front of the others, as he was proud of his physique if not his stature, and Micky was a bit of an exhibitionist at heart. Mike didn't much care for his own body, which was rangy and hairy and bony and...

"Beautiful," Peter pronounced as he tugged Mike's jeans down and trailed a finger along the rise of his canted hip. "Absolutely perfect."

Mike wanted to say no, that it was Peter who was beautiful and perfect, but he could not find words to do justice to everything he was feeling. He hoped he was saying it all with kisses and touches and the look in his eyes as he grasped Peter's hand and took him to bed.

***

The night was filled with long, inquisitive caresses and halting declarations of love. At first it was Mike who fell apart while Peter whispered encouragement and nonsense into his ear. All semblance of control vanished, leaving him completely at Peter's mercy as his body overrode his brain until all he could think of was how he didn't deserve this kind of joy. Then it was Peter who was lost in a whirlwind of sensation until he collapsed, spent and gasping, into the comfort of Mike's embrace. 

He still couldn't believe it, even afterwards, as Peter gathered Mike in his arms and ran supple fingers through his hair to calm him. What was it he'd sung about? Being partly shattered? Well, if being partly shattered meant becoming completely healed as he listened to Peter's steady heartbeat, then bring it on. Bring it on.


	4. Epilogue

Mike stood in front of the friendly crowd, holding the precious acetate single gingerly between his fingers. He'd intended it to be a gift for Peter, but when Tess let slip that she'd invited Micky and Davy to the "listening party," he knew that would have to be reconsidered. 

And oh, what friends they were, to have come all this way to listen to a three-minute record. 

Davy, despite the haircut that almost brought Peter to tears, was still the same loving young man he'd always been. Hearing about Peter and Mike's relationship had come as a shock but he'd borne it well and became one of their most ardent supporters. He and Imogene handed off their son to Micky, who tucked the toddler under one arm as if he were a football and began careening around the room with him.

Micky was as irrepressible as ever. Tess loved him; Cal thought he was interesting but crazy. Everyone agreed that he was definitely better off without Miranda, who had left him when his GPA rose above hers. Someone would come his way when the time was right, Peter often said. Mike caught the wistful glances Micky cast at Davy's little family and hoped the time would be soon.

He shook off the reverie and held the single aloft. "I, uh, guess this is what you were waiting for." His hand trembled when he lowered the tone arm but the needle found its groove and music filled the room.

Mike felt a rush of panic-stricken blood in his ears, leaving him unable to hear what everyone else was hearing, whatever it was that made Micky stop in his tracks, that put an amazed smile on Davy's face. He pulled himself together in time to listen to himself singing the last two lines over the simple sound of his guitar:

"What you are to me is something we can share.  
I've known you for a long time, but I've just begun to care."

For a moment all he could hear was the needle scraping against the runout groove. He looked down at his shoes, terrified that he had wasted so much time and money on a complete failure.

"Oh, Mike," Micky's voice was thick when he broke the silence. "That's...that's the best work you've ever done, man."

Davy agreed. "It's stunning." He dabbed at the tears that had streamed down his face. "Were you holding out on us all those years? Not that 'Gonna Buy Me a Dog' wasn't art for art's sake..."

Mike stuck his tongue out at him, then turned to Peter. 

Peter's face no longer bore the starved, desloate look that had haunted Mike's conscience. Tess' generous cooking had filled in the gaunt cheeks, to be sure, but it was being with Mike, being surrounded by his love and music and laughter, that had put the long-lost sparkle back into Peter's eyes. It hadn't been all a bed of roses. Peter's family had disowned him completely when they found out, and he and Mike had to move to an apartment on Westheimer after some rednecks decided to throw rocks through their windows every night. 

In what Mike liked to call "the final analysis," however, all he cared about was Peter and the music, because to him they were one entity, the core of his entire being.

Peter still said nothing about what he had just heard, but he flung his arms around Mike and held on so tightly that they almost couldn't breathe. It took only an instant before Davy and Micky joined them and all four were jumping up and down like the excitable teenagers they had once been.

Like the friends they still were.

Mike slipped his hand around Peter's and squeezed, seeing his own emotions reflected clearly in Peter's dark eyes. Before he had a chance to become too mawkish, however, someone handed Micky a pair of drumsticks and the evening's jam got underway. Peter sat down at the piano and scooped his namesake up to sit on his lap, guiding the tiny fingers on the opening notes of Davy's favorite song.

Grinning, Mike made a big deal out of lowering the microphone stand to Davy's height. He grabbed his guitar off the piano lid, smiling down at Peter. His hands quickly shaped themselves in the familiar chords as Davy began to sing about young, innocent love.

Sure, Davy had to be back in London in two short days' time, and not long afterwards Micky would be headed back to California. It might well be another two years before they saw one another again. But this bond, forged by memories, music, and love, couldn't be severed by mere annoyances like distance and time.

Mike and Peter had their own young, innocent love, and neither of them would ever need to run again.

***  
END  
***


End file.
